


Fight Training

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Conventions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 02:14:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So the story was everywhere, right?  At TorCon, the boys and the Overlord got into a “wrestling match” and things got a little out of hand.  It ended with some injured ribs and Jensen sporting some wicked carpet burn, which probably <i>wasn’t</i> due to being boned into the rug, but you never can tell!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fight Training

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly can’t remember who gave me this idea. It was definitely from tumblr, probably in the Cockles tag but it could have been the J2 tag. Anyway, they wanted this OT3 SPITROASTING. Whoever you are, wherever you are, _whenever you are_ … this is for you.

“You should have seen him!” Jensen is laughing, green eyes bright with drink. He’s braced himself against the wall, palms flat against the milky yellow paint. He doesn’t trust himself. Jared doesn’t blame him; the Sheraton’s warm decor and funky walls just swim right past you after a few Irish Car Bombs.

Jared rubs his face. His fingers are tingling with drunken numbness. Belatedly, he remembers that Jensen said something. “Seen Misha?”

“Yes!” Jensen goes on, like Jared hadn’t spaced out. “He bombed. _Spectacularly._ ” He manages the word, but not without fumbling through the last two syllables. “Asked her something about vanilla skies and, and the meaning of life. It was just painful. She even patted his cheek before leaving.”

Jared winces. “Ouch.”

“Yeah. I could tell he wanted to hit that, too. Like, horizontally. Or vertically.” Jensen scrunches his face up, drawing in the air with one finger. “Or, like … L-shaped? Look,” he says, very seriously, “I’ve been drinking.”

And Jared starts laughing, because damn if that isn’t the funniest thing he’s heard all night. “Yeah,” he says between chortles. “Yeah, you have.”

When Misha catches up to them, he looks like he spent the evening downing Irish Car Bombs, Long Island Iced Teas, and whatever was on tap. Which is to say, smashed.

“You know what we need?” he slurs, swaying a little.

“Pretzels?” Jensen guesses.

“Water,” Misha says. “Lots of water.”

“Oh.” Jensen looks a little crestfallen. “I thought you were gonna say pretzels.”

“I love you guys,” Jared says, sudden and fervent. Because it’s true, he does. He wishes convention weekends never had to end.

“That’s sweet,” Misha says.

“Not here, man,” Jensen says, glancing left and right like a caged animal. “What if some of ‘em are still hanging around?”

Jared cocks his head, uncomprehending. Misha’s the one who gets it, go figure. “Fangirls,” he says.

“Oh.” Jared rotates his shoulders and peers through the fuzziness. “Let’s go upstairs, then. No fangirls up there.”

Jensen pushes himself off the wall and starts shuffling toward the elevators. Jared offers Misha a hand, but the smaller man ignores it, swaying this way and that as he walks down the hall. Jared rubs his face again and follows.

“They’re not all that bad,” Jensen allows, once they’re all leaning into corners of the elevator. “Fangirls, I mean.”

“They can be quite creative,” Misha says, picking at his green t-shirt. “Sometimes I go online just to see what they’ve come up with.”

Jensen leans back, thunking his head against the wall. He looks dazed. “I watched a video they made once — one of those ‘Destiel’ things. But now when I go to YouTube, it’s all, ‘hi, Jensen, we have some recommendations for you: gay, gay, gay, gay, gay, gay, gay.’ And I’m like, I don’t have _time_ to watch all this!” He looks absolutely heartbroken about it; Jared is going to have fun with that when they’re sober.

***

The moral of the story is to never, _ever_ , encourage conflict between Jensen and Misha when they’re falling-down drunk. Somehow, between the ride up to Jensen’s room and now, the topic jumps from fan-made videos to who would really win in a fight: Cas or Dean? This morphs into who would really win a hypothetical fight: Misha or Jensen?

Jared really should have stopped it there. Should have told them to have some water, or hug it out. But no; what Jared had done was say, “You’d both lose, because I’d knock your heads together.”

Jensen actually laughs. Misha quirks a dubious eyebrow at him. “You are the largest, to be sure,” the shorter man says. “But that means very little.” Then he snickers at his own joke.

“Bigger they are, harder they fall.” Jensen walks to his mini-fridge and very gingerly bends over to grab three bottles of water.

Jared tries to catch one out of the air and misses. He ends up having to crawl under the table to retrieve it. “Dude. You don’t throw things when your hand-eye coordination is shit.”

“Don’t catch things, either,” Jensen says with a smirk.

“Anyway.” Jared glances at Misha, who’s already chugged half his bottle. “I could take both of you.”

Jensen laughs again, flopping back onto the king-size bed. Misha manages to smile without coming up for air, and then he chucks the empty plastic at Jared’s head. “So let’s make a wager.”

Jensen’s voice floats over from the bed. “Too drunk for wagers.”

Jared ignores him. “Fine. Old-fashioned grappling match. First person to pin the other three times gets to gloat, and loser has to buy dinner. Deal?”

In response, Misha leaps for him, all flinging arms and bravado. It’s kind of ridiculously hilarious. Jared’s actually _been_ in a bar brawl. He pivots, getting around Misha and grabbing one of his arms. He uses that as leverage, pulling the smaller man down to the carpet.

“This is why Cas always fights by snapping his fingers or glaring at the enemies,” Jared cracks, shoving Misha’s cheek into the rough beige.

“I get to use a sword,” Misha says, sounding petulant. He’s squirming, trying to twist around. He’s lithe and strong; it’s getting harder to hold him down without actually hurting him. “You pinned me, you ox,” he adds a moment later. “Now let me up so I can pin you.”

Jared blinks. “Right,” he says, and backs off just in time for a heavy weight to slam into his back. His yelp is swallowed when his face hits the floor.

“Pinned ya,” Jensen says, sounding immensely pleased with himself. He’s straddling Jared’s waist, hands pushing Jared’s shoulders into the carpet.

“You weren’t even playing!” Jared protests, squirming. He can barely budge; Jensen is smaller and shorter, but he’s also very _solid._

“Sure I was. Why wouldn’t I be?” Jensen leans on Jared a little more. “It counts.”

“You’re a cheating cheater who cheats.”

“It _counts._ ”

“Fine!”

Jensen starts moving, but before Jared can push himself back up, Misha sails into them both. Jensen’s yell drowns out Jared’s swearing, and the three of them go down in a pile of tangled limbs.

“What the _hell_ , Misha!”

“Got both of you,” Misha says.

“No, you didn’t,” Jensen argues, face trapped in Jared’s armpit. “Tackling doesn’t count; you gotta pin someone.”

“I just pinned two someones.”

“No, you _didn’t_ ,” Jared says, bucking them both off. It initiates a free-for-all. They roll around the floor, sometimes interlocked, sometimes separately. The room’s pretty big, but there are some close encounters with the table legs and the edge of the entertainment center. There’s also an epic dive that goes terribly wrong.

“ _Motherfucker,_ ” Jensen groans, rolling onto his side, one hand hovering near his chin.

“What?” Jared asks, wincing as he touches his ribs. “You okay?”

Misha reaches him first, cocking his head to study the injury while Jensen sits up. “Ouch,” he says, sympathetically. “That looks like it stings.”

“Stings like a bitch,” Jensen grumbles. He touches it briefly before yanking his fingers away with a hiss.

“Let me see,” Misha says, reaching out.

Jared heads for the bathroom to get a washcloth. The world isn’t tilting as madly as before. He runs the cloth under cold water, studying his own face. His eyes don’t look too glassy anymore, though his skin is flushed and his hair tousled.

“I’ve got a—”

The rest of the sentence dies in his throat when Jared is back in the main room. He’s not sure what sort of diagnosis Misha is making, but he’s certain no doctor has ever had to kiss a patient to get answers.

“Guys …” He’s too quiet, because they don’t hear him. Jared stands there, washcloth gripped tight in his fist, watching. Misha’s sitting astride Jensen’s outstretched legs, body rocking in time with the kiss. It’s not unwelcome, either, judging by the fingers digging into Misha’s back.

“Guys,” Jared tries again, stronger this time. “Guys, are we still drunk?” He’s not — not that drunk — but they must be. They wouldn’t, Jensen wouldn’t …

He walks over to them so he can see better. Jensen’s eyes are closed, long lashes brushing his cheekbones, head tilted just so for the kiss. Misha’s arms are around his neck, one hand trying to find purchase in Jensen’s short hair.

The whole thing makes Jared irrationally pissed. He drops to one knee and pulls them apart, resisting the urge to _actually_ knock their heads together. Misha stares at him with frenzied blue eyes and wet lips. Jared ignores him and looks at Jensen instead — at Jensen’s dazed eyes and, Christ, his kiss-swollen mouth.

“What?” Jensen asks.

Jared snorts, pointedly not looking at Jensen’s lips, and starts dabbing at the wicked rug-burn on his best friend’s chin. Jensen flinches and tries to retreat, but Jared prevents the escape by gripping his hair — like Misha was just doing.

Misha. Who is still sitting on Jensen’s legs. “When you give him a clean bill of health,” he drawls, “can I kiss him again?”

“No,” Jared snaps, because they’ve been drinking and they’re sore — and not because Misha has the balls to make the move Jared’s been too scared to make for years.

“C’mon, Jay,” Jensen sighs, still squirming, “why’re you acting all weird?”

Jesus Christ, that does not even warrant a response. “How am _I_ being weird, here? I just broke up your drunken make-out session.”

“Jealousy,” Misha says.

 _Fuck,_ Jared thinks, because it’s all over now. Except it isn’t, because Jensen is staring at him with almost-sober intensity. He swallows hard over a huge lump in his throat.

“Are you?” Jensen asks, running his tongue along his bottom lip. “Jealous?” And he’s never looked more desirable in all the years Jared’s known him, which is probably why Jared just stops fighting it.

 _God,_ he thinks with a moan, leaning forward. He tosses the washcloth aside, turning Jensen’s head to kiss him once on the forehead, once on the bridge of his nose, and then full on the lips.

It’s the right move. Jensen groans — a throaty, needy sound — and scrambles to his knees to get a better angle. It’s a kiss that’s been seven years coming. Jared opens his mouth wide and gives everything, takes everything. He wraps his arms around Jensen and pulls them flush. Licks every inch of Jensen’s mouth he can reach. They taste like whiskey and Bailey’s, like years of wasted time.

“Very alluring,” Misha says from somewhere to their left. “You’re beautiful, both of you. Beautiful, and …” he trails off, sounding strained.

Reluctantly, Jared pulls away. Not very far; Jensen has a painful hold on his hair. “Misha,” he rasps, looking for the other man. Jensen doesn’t seem too interested in waiting, his lips hot and wet against Jared’s neck. His cock is straining in his jeans. “Misha,” he says again.

“Right here.” Misha’s lithe form folds along Jared’s back, hugging him from behind. Jensen pulls back a little, leaning around Jared presumably to give Misha a look. “What? It’s not like it was hard to find. You have the most unimaginative packing habits.”

Jared glances down. Somehow, he failed to notice that Jensen’s deft fingers had gotten half his shirt unbuttoned. That’s not even the shocking part. The shocking part is the tube of lube clutched in one of Misha’s fists. “Um.”

Misha scrambles around to kiss him. Jared doesn’t even think twice about it, just dips down to meet him. Misha tastes like … like _Misha._ It’s hard to explain. Underneath alcohol and dinner there’s a certain smoky flavor he sucks off Misha’s tongue and it’s _him._

He doesn’t have time to decipher it, though, because Jensen’s hands are finishing up with his buttons. “Hey,” he protests, but can’t bring himself to struggle when the shirt is shoved off his shoulders, imprisoning his arms. Jensen’s tongue skates around his nipple and Jared bites his lip to stifle the moan that bubbles up.

It _is_ always the quiet ones. Jared rolls his head back, wobbling on his knees and trying to struggle out of his shirt. When he does get free, he doesn’t even know what to do with his hands. He ends up settling them awkwardly on Jensen’s back while his friend mouths his ribs. Jensen’s fingers drag lines of fire to his waist; the clink of Jared’s belt buckle is loud in the relative silence.

“Can I?” Jensen asks. His voice is a silky smooth rumble that makes Jared’s cock jump in his pants.

When Jared looks at him, he sees that Misha has settled behind Jensen. One hand is still clutching the lube, and the other is playing along the strip of exposed skin between the hem of Jensen’s shirt and the waistband of his jeans. Jared tries not to think about how familiar the touch looks — tries not to think about how well used the tube looks.

No. Jensen would have told him. Right?

“Relax,” Jensen says, incredibly astute despite the situation. He starts working on Jared’s belt. “There’s nothing going on.”

“Yet,” Misha says meaningfully. He drops the tube to the carpet and rucks up Jensen’s shirt without asking. Jared can hear the wet smack of kisses along the knobs of Jensen’s spine — and if Jen takes a long time to take off a belt, well, Jared understands.

Finally, the belt slides free with a hiss and Jared’s pants are unzipped and unbuttoned. His cock bounces in his boxers, grateful for the freedom. Jensen grabs him through the fabric and Jared sees stars. He topples, landing hard on his ass and almost whacking his head on the footboard.

“Can I?” Jensen asks again, palming Jared’s cock. His hips undulate with the touch; Jared’s so hard it fucking hurts.

He nods dumbly, fingers scratching desperately at the carpet. Jensen moves fast, getting his underwear out of the way and making a pleased noise when Jared’s cock pops up in all its glory. It’s swollen and red, jutting up toward his belly. When Jensen strokes it, Jared feels the electricity from head to toe.

“Fuck me,” he sighs, rolling his head back. “You’re really gonna …” When he looks back at them, Misha has his head hooked over Jensen’s shoulder, whispering something into his ear. Jared can’t hear, but he can guess what it is from the way Misha’s hands are playing with the button of Jensen’s jeans.

Jensen nods, resting his head against Misha’s in a keen moment of peace. Then he’s all business again, shooting them each a pointed look. “If you high-five, I will rearrange your faces.”

Jared’s getting blown before he can agree to the terms, and this time he does whack his head against the footboard. He barely feels it; Jensen’s fucking mouth on his cock is better, and more important, than anything else going on in the world right now. Except maybe for how Misha has Jensen’s jeans around his knees and is working the lube open. Misha’s own pants are open and loose, his erection as lithe and graceful as the rest of him. Jared watches with rapt attention as Misha coats his fingers and starts slow, pushing one in while muttering hushed, soothing nonsense. The comfort isn’t necessary, because Jensen only moans around Jared’s cock and pushes back into Misha.

The _quiet ones,_ seriously.

By the time Misha’s pushing into Jensen, Jared’s managed to overcome the sheer _holy shit_ -ness of this whole situation and become an active player. He groans, runs his fingers through Jensen’s hair and marvels at how perfect his friend is. He tells Misha to _give it to him, fuck him harder_ and Jensen to _keep sucking it; Christ, your fucking mouth_. His hips are jerking involuntarily, rocking his cock deeper down Jensen’s throat. He hopes Misha is giving Jensen a reach-around because he can’t reach, he can’t fucking— 

His orgasm hits him like a freight train, ripping a shout from somewhere deep inside. His hips stutter while he pumps Jensen’s mouth full of come. Somewhere through the haze of pleasure he registers Jensen swallowing, and the idea would have made him come again, if it were possible.

Misha is next, shoving Jensen’s face into Jared’s stomach with one hand and steadying his hips with the other. Jensen moans into Jared’s skin and Jared wants to hold him, make him feel how Jared felt — but it’s Misha’s turn now, so he waits. He watches Misha gradually come undone, watches this calm and unflappable man break down into something primal and sexual. He’s grunting and growling, short fingernails digging deep into Jensen’s hips and then he’s roaring — fucking in and in and _deep_.

Jared stares, mouth wide, as Misha collapses backward with a sated groan. He peels off the condom and tosses it aside before grabbing at Jensen. Jensen follows the pull, as pliant and willing as he’s been all night, dropping between Misha’s legs and leaning back against his shoulder. He looks like … fuck, he looks like two men had been balls-deep in him from both ends — and it’s hot as hell.

Misha is already stroking Jensen’s sorely neglected cock, but that’s _Jared’s._ He crawls forward, shoving Misha’s hand aside and taking over. Jensen gasps, hips pushing up into Jared’s massive grip, head rolling on Misha’s shoulder. Misha’s fingers drift up to tease Jensen’s nipple, but his gaze meets Jared’s over Jensen’s shoulder and then they’re kissing — making up for the fact that they didn’t touch while they were fucking Jensen.

When Jensen comes, he spills over Jared’s hands. It’s warm, but cooling quickly, so Jared pulls away from Misha to lick it up while he can. It’s bitter but he loves it anyway.

He leaves to get another washcloth, grinning because that’s what started this in the first place. After they clean themselves off, they put themselves back together and sit down with new bottles of water.

“Okay,” Jensen says, very seriously. “So it was _fight training,_ right?”

Misha nods. “Sounds good to me.”

“Technically,” Jared says with a smile, “that _is_ how it started.”

 

~End.


End file.
